Page 9 of The True Love Experiment

Her eyes widen. “A—what? What is North Star’s brand? Sitcoms and Lifetime movies, to environmental documentaries, and now dating shows?”

“It’s Blaine,” I say by way of explanation, and Natalia requires nothing more. Blaine bounces from one thing to another, depending on who’s currently got his ear, and right now—understandably—it’s the executives holding the purse strings. Odds are good I was hired because a now-ex-wife was worried about marine mammals. “And nothing’s set in stone yet, just exploring some options.” I don’twant both of us worrying about this, so I change the subject. “How’s Insu?”

“Wonderful,” she says, draping herself across the couch in the exact way our daughter would. “He’s taking me to dinner tomorrow night for our anniversary.”

“Oh cool, did he get his driver’s license?” I grin at her. “They grow up so fast.” In truth, I like Insu—he’s far more mature than I was at that age, he adores Natalia, and Stevie likes him, too—but I’m not going to pass up a chance to take the piss a bit.

“You know he’s only seven years younger than you.”

“Which would also make him eight years younger than you. I hope you’re locking up the drinks cupboard.”

A cushion connects with the side of my head just as Stevie makes it downstairs with her things, Baxter and his own weekend bag in tow.

“Ready to go, Sass?”

“Yep. I sent you a link to the tour T-shirts,” Stevie says. “You don’t want to wait because they might sell out.”

I reach for my phone again. “Yes, Captain.”

“Would this happen to be Wonderland related?” Nat asks.

“Sadly, the concert was sold out, but we’ll get some goodies to soothe the ache.”

Nat gives me a littlewhat a relief, huhlook over the top of Stevie’s head as she hugs her goodbye. And for a handful of seconds, regret cuts sharply through me. I’m sure I miss a thousand of these ordinary and sweet moments every day. I could have lived this life with the two of them. It would have been platonic and passionless, yes, but stable and loving. I’d assumed there had to be something moreout there, but really, it’s not like my love life is any more electric than it was when we were married.

But it’s too late to start over again, and the truth is, I’ll miss all of this and far more if I don’t figure out what the fuck I’m going to do about work.

fourFIZZY

The first time I ever met a producer to discuss adapting one of my books into a film, I was so excited I barely slept the night before. I spent hours picking out what I would wear. I told every person I knew that my book was being adapted into a movie. I gave myself five hours to drive the 124 miles to Los Angeles and then paid forty dollars to park so I’d have a place to wait because I’d arrived three hours early. I sat there and thought about what I might wear on the red carpet, who might be cast as the hero, and how it would feel to see him on the screen for the very first time. I walked in with big smiles and big plans and big hopes.

That collaboration didn’t go anywhere, and neither did the next meeting, or the next, and the meetings thatwereproductive were about projects that eventually languished in predevelopment for years. I had to learn the hard way that everyone in Hollywood is excited about a project until it’s time for the wallets to open. Now I know this song and dance; the meeting my film agent set up for me this morning at the unknown-to-me North Star Media doesn’t even register as a blip with my adrenals.

North Star’s administrative assistant is a sweet twentysomething cutie-pie who offers me coffee and a doughnut from a pinkmom-and-pop-shop box on her desk when I arrive. I consider answering a few DMs while I wait, but what my readers want is an update on the book, and I’ve got nothing for them. I put my phone away and busy myself with a doughnut instead.

Looking around, I must admit the vibe in this small San Diego production company is much beachier and chill than all the glossy glass-walled or intentionally industrial bluster of LA. But when the dude I’m meeting steps out of his office, I’m reminded that Hollywood is Hollywood, even in San Diego.

I think I know him from somewhere, but I can’t place where—this is not a man who would hang out in any of my favorite coffee shops or bars. His hair is so perfectly coiffed that from a distance it looks like a Lego hair block. I’m distracted by his height, so I don’t catch his name, but I smile as if I did. White gleaming teeth, glimmering eyes that would get the sparkle sound effect in a cartoon, and muscles bunchy and flexing under his white dress shirt. He is hot in a very obvious way. If I were writing this book, I’d immediately cast him as Hot Millionaire Executive. Sadly, my mental Rolodex tells me three important things about this hero archetype: He will talk a lot about whatever sport he played in college. He is, at best, a performative feminist. And, relatedly, he does not enjoy going down on women.

But I follow him into his office anyway because if I stay in the waiting area, I’ll eat a second doughnut.

Hot Millionaire Executive’s office is tidy and sparse. Unlike many other film executives’ workspaces, it doesn’t have a framed collection of signed rare comic books, a coffee table book about vintagesneakers, or a vanity wall of film posters. He has a few framed black-and-white photographs of what looks like the Central California coastline, some other framed photos facing away from me on his desk, and then nothing but clean walls and surfaces.

The hot, boring man gestures that I should sit in one of the expensive leather chairs grouped around a low wood coffee table, and I really do try to fall effortlessly into the seat, but the rip in my jeans hits at the worst place in my knee and the second I sit it makes an audible tearing sound. A moment passes where I can see him debating whether he should react to it.

He seems to decide against it, smiling instead. I addnice smileto his character description. “Thanks for coming in today, Felicity.”

“Oh. A Brit.” I feel the first, tiny pants flutter in ages and update my mental archetype Rolodex.

“Born and raised in Blackpool.”

“I don’t know where that is, but it sounds piratey.”

He laughs at this, a low, rumbling sound. “Northwestern England.”

I nod, looking around, trying to figure out how a man looking like that left his pirate hometown, ended up in an office this bland, and eventually found his way to my books. What a journey. When my eyes return to his face, I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve met before. “Do we know each other?”

He hesitates, mouth briefly forming one word before it takes a different shape. “I don’t believe so. But my ex-wife is a huge fan.”

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